


Hollow Man

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Marking, Blood Drinking, Dean's Soul, Frottage, Handprint Kink, M/M, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 15:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5252996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s on a Sunday when Dean finally tells Castiel what’s on his mind, the force of it nearly knocking the wind out of him, the meaning behind such a statement almost too much to fathom.</p><p>"I can't feel it anymore."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow Man

It’s on a Sunday when Dean finally tells Castiel what’s on his mind, the force of it nearly knocking the wind out of him, the meaning behind such a statement almost too much to fathom. For majority of the early morning hours, Castiel had situated himself in the library, a collection of fading manuscripts before him written in Aramaic and Enochian, Sumerian and derivatives of Latin. Topics the brothers can’t even fathom, lore Castiel hasn’t seen in centuries, millennia. The Letters’ documentation is expansive, but none of it leads him where he needs to be. It’s all a dead end; at some point, he’ll have to tell Sam that they’re stuck unless something falls into their lap. Sam will be more sympathetic—Dean, he thinks, might have a hernia.

Dean is the first person he sees that morning, the tie of his robe barely doing anything to hide the black shirt he wears and the boxer briefs that frame his hips. For once, Dean ignores Castiel’s once-over; he looks distressed, eyes dark and wide, hands twitching in his robe pockets, searching for something to hold on to. “You didn’t sleep,” Castiel says, not expecting an answer.

Dean doesn't give him one verbally, instead settling for a quiet nod. He pulls out a chair across from him and sits, head in his hands, fingers tapping his skull. “I can’t feel it,” he says, voice almost muffled. For a while, he waits for Dean to continue, his hands resting atop a folio older than Dean’s entire lineage. “I can’t—I’ve been thinking. Wondering. I know—I have a soul, and I know it’s there. I still… _feel_ things. But I just don’t…” He stops, swallows. “I can’t feel it anymore.”

Somewhere inside his vessel, his heart flutters, nearly stopping. “It’s there,” Castiel confirms without a second thought and lets his hand wander, pulling one of Dean’s away from his face and holding it tight in his fist. Faintly, Dean shakes in his hold, his body antsy; from fear or exhaustion, Castiel doesn't know. “I can still see it. It’s… recovering, so to say. The Mark ingrained itself so heavily, it’s struggling to right itself.”

Across the table, Dean laughs a hollow sound, finally lowering his other hand. His eyes are red rimmed, glassy at the edges; he needs to sleep, needs to be told that he’s not _dying_ , that he won’t if he tries. But Castiel would be loath to admit that he didn't feel a different energy coming off of him, hesitant and wary and wired. His body can’t keep up with his daily toll, his soul can’t comprehend emotion, the frailty it once bore proudly now threatening to collapse in on itself. “You sure you can’t just soulcheck me?” Dean attempts to laugh, the sound watery in his throat. “C’mon, man. I’m _terrified_ here. Sammy said it himself, people react differently to bein’ empty—what if I’m just… hollow? What if this is my new normal?”

“You’re not empty,” Castiel says with a shake of his head. He stands and rounds the table, urging Dean to face him in his seat, taking both of Dean’s hands and cupping them tight within his own. Dean watches him with wet eyes, his breaths deep, rattling. “Would it make you feel better if I confirmed it for you?”

Another laugh. “Probably not,” Dean admits. Lowering his head, he looks to Castiel’s bare feet, barely covered by his pajama pants. _Dean’s_ pants, the only pair that doesn't have a hole in them somewhere. They’re supposed to go to Hastings this week, supposedly to stock up on food and furnish Castiel’s bedroom. He’s been looking forward to it for days. “’S there anything else you can do that doesn't involve your arm inside my chest?”

His heart pangs at the question, the pure idea of it almost nerve-wracking. It’s unorthodox, unsanitary, _unclean_ , what he wants to say. But it’s the closest thing he can think of that might get Dean to _feel_ again, to aid his soul in its fruitless quest to heal itself. “…There’s a possibility,” Castiel says, slow, just quiet enough for Dean to hear. Before him, Castiel kneels and rests his forehead on the interior of Dean’s thigh, Dean’s robe soft against his skin. “…Understand, this isn’t something an Angel is supposed to suggest to a human, in any capacity. The last time someone committed such an act, they were smote on the spot.”

Above him, Dean snorts and runs a hand through Castiel’s hair, letting his fingers curl around his nape. “’S it got anything to do with your head in my lap?”

“No,” Castiel says; he hides his smile in Dean’s leg, letting out a breath. “I want you to drink my blood.”

Slowly, Dean’s ministrations come to a stop. Horror flashes across his face, lips pulled into a thin line. “Cas—.”

“Listen.” Castiel leans back and looks up at him, both hands pressed to Dean’s clothed knees. “Souls are… complex. I can’t heal the damage that has been done with my Grace alone, but there are ways I can speed up your recovery.” Standing, he cups Dean’s cheeks, thumbing away the stray wetness beneath one eye. “As long as you never speak a word to anyone what sin we’ve committed.”

This time, Dean’s laugh is genuine. “Pretty sure I wouldn't tell even if I wanted,” he chuckles and leans into Castiel’s hand, letting his eyes fall closed. “…You really think it’d help? If I…”

“It certainly couldn't hurt to try,” Castiel whispers. Against his hand, he feels Dean nod, his body relaxing ever so minutely. “Where would you feel most comfortable?”

Dean leads him to his bedroom in lieu of a reply, making sure the door is locked behind them. Sam is still asleep across the hall, the digital clock on Dean’s bedside table reading five minutes until five; no doubt he’ll be awake for his morning run soon, but for now, the bunker is silent. Above them, the heater kicks on with a rattle, pumping warm air in through the aging duct system. Castiel doesn't pay it any mind; Dean just shrugs off his robe and sets it on his desk chair, afterwards settling in the middle of his bed, legs crossed and hands in his lap like he’s awaiting orders.

And in a way, he is—Castiel is the only one in the room who knows what’s going on, who knows what is at stake here. Blasphemy, allowing a mere mortal to taste the blood of the divine, to feed off of it to better himself. But it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.

Dean watches him as he takes a pocketknife from the mantelpiece above his bed, two inches in length with no special attributes. On occasion, he’s seen Dean whittle with it, when he’s especially bored and he can find a few limbs strewn about behind the bunker. Castiel still has the dolphin he made a few weeks ago, right after Dean returned home with the weight of the world on his shoulders while he and Sam waited out the Darkness’ blast wave.

It’s still sharp when he runs it across his pointer finger, drawing it deep enough to bring blood to the surface; he lets it drip off the tip and smears a stripe across Dean’s forehead, copper staining the air between them. Slowly, Dean’s eyes close as he continues to draw sigils across his face: one on each cheek, a line across his nose reaching into his hairline, another in the middle of his forehead and under his chin. Castiel finishes the design with a line down his nose and lets his finger rest against the swell of Dean’s lower lip, quietly imploring entry; Dean laps the wound without question, hazy eyes looking up to Castiel’s own, green almost eclipsed by black. Not arousal—just fear. Of the unknown, of what he’s gotten himself into. Of what he’s become.

“Do you still want this?” Castiel asks as he retrieves his finger, leaving a smear of red across Dean’s lips. “We can stop at any time.”

“Want to,” Dean confides, quiet. His voice shakes when he speaks. “…What do you want me to do?”

He hands Dean the knife in reply and shrugs off his shirt, lowering himself into the middle of the bed. Dean watches him the entire time, apprehension in his eyes, nervousness rattling his bones. “Take what you want,” Castiel tells him, calm, and bares his neck, the vulnerable skin there; he swallows under Dean’s attention, exhaling. “If you don’t feel any noticeable changes, you can stop. We’ll go at your pace, Dean.”

There’s a brief moment where he considers if Dean will follow through, if he’ll drop the blade and leave the room, never to speak of the incident again. Castiel wouldn't blame him, really—but Dean wanted it, _needed_ to feel something other than the hollowness of his own soul, the loneliness that had crept inside and failed to leave, even after his faculties returned and he stopped his killing spree. Finding out if he had a soul was one thing—fixing the damage after what had happened to him would take a miracle. Softly, he lets his fingers linger over Dean’s shoulder, squeezing lightly over where a handprint once rested, where his claim once shown bright on his skin. The proof that a soul could be healed, could be restored to its former resilience with a single touch.

“Do you want it back?” Castiel asks; unbelievably, he watches Dean nod, watches him lower his head to the crook of his neck for a long minute just to _breathe_. With that, Castiel chants a few words in Enochian and gazes at the red lines strewn across Dean’s face, his blood burning blue until it disappears entirely, a mark only visible to him. “Take it, Dean.”

It’s uncomfortable at first, like he expected it to be. Dean starts off slow, shaking hands drawing the blade across the juncture of Castiel’s neck and shoulder a good two inches, deep enough for it to bleed out freely. It takes another few seconds for Dean’s hesitation to fade and for him to latch on, his body splayed half over Castiel’s while he feeds from the wound, full lips drawing precious nectar from his veins, tonguing it clean between nips. Soon, Castiel finds himself falling into it, finds himself stroking through Dean’s hair and scratching down his scalp, twirling his fingers in the short strands behind his ear.

And at once, he understands why such an act is forbidden, the pleasure behind it indescribable. Dean touches him while he laps at the incision, lets his hand wander across Castiel’s chest and down to his hip, wherever he can touch. Warm insistence rubs against his hip with increased frequency, the gyration of Dean’s hips almost maddening the longer he keeps it up. He’s hard in his pants, Dean’s thigh rubbing against his growing erection until he’s pressing back, more than quiet breaths escaping his lips. The duality is frightening: Dean’s tongue circling his purpling skin, Dean’s leg against him, Dean’s erection slotting against his own. Castiel moans with it, unbidden.

Absently, he feels Dean pull back long enough to cut another incision on the opposite side of his neck, the other now healed with nothing but a faint scar as a reminder. Teeth join in this time, now more insistent as their bodies rock together, Castiel’s hands around his back and gripping his shoulders tight, Dean’s in Castiel’s hair and between their bodies, struggling to work them both free of their clothing.

“Dean,” he pants at the first touch of Dean’s hand to his cock, warm skin pressed to Dean’s own in the tunnel of his fist. They thrust together like that, Castiel letting out quiet gasps while Dean muffles his moans into his neck, still bleeding into Dean’s mouth, barely a trickle. “Dean,” he says again; the fire burns bright in his belly, almost claustrophobic by how quickly his orgasm rushes through him, and then he’s spilling into Dean’s fist and over his bare stomach. Dean ruts again and again, his moan vibrating into Castiel’s neck when he comes.

Beneath his shirtsleeve, Castiel grips his shoulder tight while they come down, a bright burst of Grace searing the pristine skin and marking it once again, warm and puffy when he pulls it away. Against him, he feels Dean relax and release his neck, healed once again, nothing left but a purpled bruise and a bite mark to show for it. Dean’s lips are smeared with blood when he pulls up, still wet around the edges; without a thought, Castiel leans up to kiss him clean, uncaring that he can taste his own sin or that Dean is cupping his cheek with a cumsoaked hand.

For the first time, Castiel knows true bliss, holds it in his grasp.  

“I—I feel it,” Dean remarks, eyes wide and awed. He looks to his shoulder and touches the brand with reverence, then his chest over his shirt, now rucked up to his midsection. “I feel—.”

“It’s there,” Castiel confirms. He covers the brand again, letting his Grace soothe the ache, just enough to be tolerable. “It’s always been there, Dean.”

It takes another moment before Dean nods, a quiet grin spreading across his reddened lips; he leans down to kiss Castiel again, this time with intent. They need to shower; Castiel is stained in his own blood, and Dean’s hand is soaked in their drying release, growing more unpleasant by the second. “You’re— _Cas_ —.”

He shushes Dean with a finger to his lips, over the sigil he can still see if he looks hard enough. His Mark— _His_ Brand. “I know,” he says.

A confession. “So much,” Dean finishes and leans his head down again, into Castiel’s neck. Like so long ago, Castiel holds him, one arm around his waist, the other clutching his shoulder, never willing to let go again. “Love you so much,” he sobs.

“I know.” Castiel kisses his ear and closes his eyes. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have a portfolio to be working on, a Shakespeare paper to write, a project to do for my tech writing class, plus the SPN Reverse Bang, and yet here I am, writing about this. So, uh... hope you enjoyed it? (I'm all for Cas and Dean's soul, if you weren't aware.)
> 
> Title is from the R.E.M. song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
